


Stars

by calicofold



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1996-05-24
Updated: 1996-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 08:30:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1681625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calicofold/pseuds/calicofold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set immediately after Under Colour of Authority, Duncan reflects on how he handled Richie's confrontation with Mako.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars

**Author's Note:**

> This is set immediately after "Under Color of Authority" in the dojo apartment. For the purposes of the story I've put a year between the episode "The Darkness" and this one. There is a creative interpretation of certain events in "The Leader of the Pack", call it dramatic licence.

MacLeod sat hunched forward in the easy chair. He had needed to say those things to Richie, but it was as if he'd deliberately maimed him instead. The hopeless look in the boy's face had nearly made MacLeod call him back. Even now Richie could only have got as far as his apartment - if he'd gone back.

There were no pictures of Richie around, he'd always been camera shy, perhaps not believing that Duncan and Tessa really wanted him to be part of their lives, part of their memories. With the bike gone it was almost as if Richie had never been. 

_Perhaps_ , thought MacLeod angrily, _it would've been better to follow my first wish, and behead him while he lay in the road._ But he hadn't been able to. He never had told Richie what would come to him, he had found that he could not - although whether because he didn't want to, or because the Rules kept him silent, he didn't know. And for a while, as the two people dearest in the world to him had bled into the gutters, he'd wondered if he'd been mistaken, if perhaps Richie had truly died, as mortals did. He had been too lost in his grieving bewilderment to care for Richie at first, and when he had come to really look at the boy, the bullet holes were healing in front of his eyes; unforgivably, his eyes were already opening, as he blinked in confusion. 

Duncan watched from a million miles away, Tessa's blood dripping through his fingers. Richie's hand lifted to touch his chest, uncomprehending, perhaps he'd dreamt it - no, and the elder Immortal saw the shock in Richie's eyes at the sight of Tessa dead in her lover's arms, when he himself was unscarred and whole. Watched the dawn of horrified understanding: perhaps he, Richie Ryan, might have saved Tessa, if he had only sacrificed himself. Perhaps Richie had seen in Duncan's eyes the despair of centuries, as every last thing he cared for betrayed him, left him, died. He heard Richie's voice in an echoing distance, answered him, barely aware of what he was saying. The sense of an Immortal was already coming from Richie, MacLeod saw his lips moving... 

"Oh God, Mac... I'm sorry... I'm sorry...I'm sorry." 

_For living or for killing Tessa?_ Duncan wondered in his distant hurt. 

The wail of sirens had failed to move him; he'd crouched holding onto Tessa, smoothing her hair, until the paramedics came to take her away. For a moment homicidal rage flashed into his eyes, and everyone flinched. Richie pulled him away gently, talking steadily, softly. MacLeod didn't really hear the words, and Richie could never remember anything but the hollow person he had held onto, had taken to the hospital, following the body, explaining, protecting. 

Her family had asked she be buried in France, so they flew over. MacLeod had organised everything, retreating into the mechanics of living, almost normal to the outsider who had only ever seen the dour steady Scot, and never the laughing man, the flirt, the tease, the hellraiser. His friends knew well enough what he was doing, and he knew that they did. But of them all, only Richie cared. For Richie it was only the second time he had seen someone he loved die in front of his eyes, and only he could understand how sharp Duncan's grief was. Other friends came to console him, but with the silent thought, _What did you expect MacLeod? Why do you bother?_

Of them all it was Richie he could least bear to be near. 

"If onlies won't bring her back," Connor had told his kinsman the first time he'd had to comfort the younger. "Don't waste your future - and it'll be a long one if you don't lose your grip - grievin' on things ye canna change. Remember them, and bury them." 

"And ye'll be fergettin' Heather soon no doubt?" Duncan had thrown back. 

"No, never. But I'm living yet, I canna help it, so I'd best get on with living." 

He could have offered his head to Richie, though he knew what Richie's reaction would be. For a while it had seemed like a wonderful idea. He'd have Tessa again, and Richie would have the power and experience from Duncan's Quickening to protect him. Every one would be looked after. Except, he'd never run from a battle, and this was not going to be the first. 

He stared absently at the empty glass. It had had no effect. He wasn't angry any more. Not with Richie or Tessa, not even with himself for leaving Tessa and letting her get killed. Nor was the nothingness still there. He knew this point, the pain had stopped for now, and he could remember her with the dozen other women who'd been more than life to him, almost losing the identity of the single hurt in the acceptance of many hurts over four hundred years. It wouldn't last, this loss of pain, and he'd learned over long years that the alcohol made it worse in the end. 

_How did I come to this,_ he finally wondered. _He has done no worse than I have done. I have carried my own guilt for acts very like his._ Perhaps it was because he was so very young, and Duncan had wanted so very much for everything to be right for Richie, without the pain and the mistakes. And Richie had turned away and made his own mistakes anyway. 

_Flinging myself in heart and soul again, and I barely even knew I was doing it till he turned his back on me,_ he thought bitterly, forgetting that he had been the one to walk away. 

Too many dead. Immortal Darius, Tessa, and then back through centuries thousands more, many at his hands, some for his sake, others just because, with no sense or reason to the loss. What if Richie died out there, on his own? Was this how Connor had felt? How had he done it? How had he kept from coming after Duncan to protect him? 

_I want more time._ He'd hoped to live with Tessa for years, to get used to her death by watching it approach as he'd watched others before her. He'd expected to have had longer to prepare Richie too, let him gain more understanding of the world, better judgement of people. He had known all along that Richie would have to die violently, and soon. Although he was not really prepared to do it himself, he had known other Immortals who'd trained up a protégé, to kill them at the peak, and let them live forever. But to watch it happen to Richie, who he'd cared for, scolded, loved... 

Where was he now? Was there time for Duncan to say sorry, to say goodbye again more kindly? He tried the number a couple of times more. Still no reply. 

If there was anything he had learned from immortality it was that there never was time. No time to waste in holding onto grudges and an anger that would fade anyway. Eventually there was only the regret left at not fixing the break in a friendship. And sometimes it was too late to fix. In his heart he knew that Richie's chances of surviving the Game much longer were low. So many other Immortals were out there, and with the Gathering at hand, Richie's was an easy head to take. A year's learning and training had improved the boy's skill, but MacLeod had had centuries of quiet wandering to find teachers and train to the best of his ability. A fight between them could only end one way. 

Duncan pulled away from the thought, disliking the clinical (immortal, a small voice whispered) turn his reflection had taken. Perhaps, and now the thought had been brought into the open he couldn't get away from it, perhaps he should take Richie's head. Perhaps it would be better. No. 

He shook his head and smiled in recollection. Richie, loud, enthusiastic, always ready to say the wrong thing, and still. Such a good kid. Duncan could not imagine ever being able to kill Richie, though he could easily see a day when revenge for Richie might be needed. Even so he had let him go. Had sent him away, unable to do it kindly without giving in and failing them both, failing in his promise to Connor. Perhaps Richie would be back - and Duncan would have to send him away again. 

He wandered over to the window. The darkness of the alley below was nearly complete, even so he couldn't see the stars. The city lights blotted them out. Living was such hard work. Even the stars were no longer there for the asking. Sometimes it seemed that they were the only things as unchanging as himself. 

Maybe he would find peace back at the cabin. But even there were memories of Tessa and Richie. The CD which had been playing whirred to a soft halt. The silence in the apartment was complete. He remembered... 

...A time before Connor, before his kin disowned him, and in his lost misery all he had wanted to do was die. Before that, when red haired Debra Campbell had gone where he could not follow. His father had stood by him, but nothing would persuade the priest she had not suicided. In fury Duncan had buried her in one of the old high places where gods of his ancestors were once worshipped. The older gods were still not so far from the Highland clans, and of all clans the MacLeods believed in the ancient powers - how could they not, when the Clan Chief held the Faery Flag, _am Bratach Sith_ at Dunvegan Castle. Unfurled once at the battle of Glendale, once at Trumpan Brig, Duncan's grandfather had seen the second unfurling, and had spoken in pale horror of the Sidhe, howling and screaming down on the foes of the Clan MacLeod. 

He had patterned her head stone in the old curves and loops, and buried her with his bracelet, the innocent gift that had led to her death, trusting her to gods long overthrown, since her own refused her. 

Life went on, but a little of Duncan had died, and as his mother began to speak of girls in this village or that, of alliances and grandchildren, he grew less gentle, and more remote. 

"Let me be, woman!" he had cried one morning. She'd persuaded him to escort her to Sioned's house, across the river. Duncan had enjoyed the walk - it was rare since leaving childhood that he had the chance to be with his mother. 

"My foster sister's daughter was sixteen this spring," Maire had informed her son, as he lifted her across the burn to save her skirts. 

Duncan's temper had snapped, and he had stalked ahead, trying to escape her voice. 

"Debra. Oh ma Debra" he whispered softly. Barely aware he did it he murmured her name, lost in the remembrance of love. What was a sixteen year old to him, a man of the clan? 

"Duncan! Duncan!" he tried to ignore his mother's calls, but turned back, unable to break the habit of obedience. And saw Fiona dance across the path, whirling his mother round and round till she laughed. 

"There, Aunt Maire. No need to look so sad. Besides, you'll never beat our Duncan, he sulks so well." 

Duncan's mother laughed again. "You're a dreadful child, my niece. And you should never tell a man he excels at anything - it only encourages them," she added conspiratorially. She'd seen the flicker of surprise in Duncan's scowling face, and felt sudden relief. For over a year she had feared her beloved only son would follow his Debra into death. This was the first time he had let anyone break his composure. Perhaps Fiona would succeed where girls of his own clan had failed. 

Fiona shrieked with laughter, and marched up to Duncan, staring nose to nose into his scowl until he felt his eyes begin to cross. 

"There is a smile in there cousin. I saw it. Right before your eyes went," and she crossed hers back at him. He bit inside his cheek to stop himself from laughing, staring stonily at a distant tree. She twisted to see what he was looking at. 

"Well, we _could_ do with more firewood, Duncan MacLeod, but you'll not blast it into logs just by glaring at it. I'm sure I could find you an axe." She grinned and dodged as he made to swipe at her. 

He pretended not to see, and offered grimly, "I'll cut your mother some firewood, if she's needing it." 

"So kind." Fiona darted away, and returned in a moment. 

"Here," and she produced an axe. "Only take this tree, please,'cause mother's fond of that one you're trying to wither." 

Caught he stomped away, and lost himself in the physical exertion of hacking down the great beech Fiona had indicated. 

"Oh Sioned." 

"My poor Maire. I've been hearing such things. The lad's young still." 

"Not so young. His father'd had a son by the age Duncan is now. He'll turn twenty-five in a few months. And he needs a wife. His grievin'..." she sighed. 

"I know," Sioned said softly. "Of all people I know." Maire's foster sister had been widowed in one of the petty wars - cattle raids really, between village and village. Sioned's son had taken a knife in the face in the same fight, and had never quite been right since. He was a good hunter still, but child like. He had already been married, and fended well enough for his own small family, but his mother and sister were beyond him. Sioned had had to rely on the charity of her foster sister, the chieftain's wife, until Fiona had started to be less of a burden. Work had forced Sioned to live through her husband's death, but nothing had stopped the grief in the seven years. 

The two women stopped for a moment, watching Duncan. Fiona sat a little way away from him, a portion of her interest in this grown-up kinsman clear in her gaze. Behind the two younger MacLeods the hills purpled into mist on the far shores of Loch Shiel. Without a word the two women turned away and began to swap the gossip of their respective villages. 

"Duncan?" Fiona said cautiously. 

No reply. 

" _Duncan!_ " 

"What?" her kinsman snarled. 

"Why are you so angry at me, Duncan? I didn't do you harm. We used to be friends," she finished sadly. 

He slammed the axe harder than necessary into the tree and snapped the handle. "Damn!" 

"It's not so bad. Look, here's a branch almost right - just little trimming and..." she offered anxiously. She remembered this tall foster cousin throwing her in the air, letting her tag along with him and her brother, treating her like a little brother, teaching and teasing her. She was fairly sure she knew why Aunt Maire had dragged him along on her weekly visit, but hero worship had grown into admiration and affection only. 

"I'm sorry Fion. You're too young, you don't underst..." 

"Yes I do!" she contradicted abruptly. "I'm sixteen, and almost betrothed." She ducked her head shyly and added, "I'm waiting for Robert Quinnell to speak to Mother. When he does, we'll get married." 

Duncan did not doubt it. She had never yet failed to get exactly what she wanted, although he did feel a fleeting pity for the hapless lad his kinswoman had set her heart on. He sat next to her, surprised at the adult expression of a face he best remembered as smeared with mud. She had grown up since he'd last seen her, the passage of two or three years had made changes in them both. Hers showed in every movement of her slight body, his in the slump of his shoulders and the lines of misery working their way into his face. 

"I'm sorry. It's just..." 

"Debra didnae deserve what they said," she said softly. "She's no' damned. You did nothing wrong between you." 

"We were to marry," he whispered, the vision of her hand missing his still vivid. "No one believes me. Even Father says trying to get them to give her proper burial does the clan honour. It's not honour I'm trying to give. And not to the clan." 

A hand slipped into his arm, and the warmth of her cheek pressed against his shoulder. 

"Mother cries for Da still you know. She sits with me and we talk about him. Jamie can't remember, and no one else will..." She tried again, "Everyone else tries to be tactful." 

"I can't cry." 

"You can you know." 

"No. I mean I've never cried for her. I canna." 

"Oh Duncan," and the girl half his age wrapped her arms round him as if he were the baby, and rocked him in silence.... 

....Love and kindness had seen him through the grieving. He had wondered since what would have happened if he _had_ tried to kill himself. He would've woken to the belief he had been miraculously saved. He might never have been banished, could have taken his father's place. Been there to save his father from Kanwulf. A single sin to save so much hurt. The next time he lost a mortal love Connor had comforted him, but Connor had only ever fallen in love once, and had never got over it. He was at a loss to help Duncan who fell in love every twenty years. Now Connor was nowhere to be found, and another love had died. This time though he started to understand Connor's aloof attitude. 

With a shiver he realised the wind was freezing him through the open window. It was still only six months since her death. 

..."You have to forgive her for standing so close to the cliff edge. There was nothing more you could have done without going over too. It would not have saved either of you," came a whisper of a long dead kinswoman. 

Maybe Richie would come back safely. Tessa would watch over him from wherever mortals went. Duncan sighed and stared out of the window again. Perhaps the stars were out there after all. 

End 


End file.
